


What Do You Get For the Commander Who Has Everything?

by squiggyrag



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 04:42:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squiggyrag/pseuds/squiggyrag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Traynor struggles to find a meaningful gift for Shepard. What do you do when your girlfriend's only real desire is the complete and total eradication of an apocalyptic threat? Scented candles or...?</p><p>Mass Effect Holiday Cheer gift for eponymousrose!</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Do You Get For the Commander Who Has Everything?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eponymous_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eponymous_rose/gifts).



> I know in the game it's called "This One's Intimate Apparel", not "This One's Secret", but i changed it, so I could make a cheap joke, for that is my way.

Specialist Samantha Traynor has always considered herself a bit of an expert at gift-giving. She listens, remembers what people say, and files it away in her mind for situations like this.  With the exception of one horrible college misunderstanding, she’s got a good track record and she wants to keep it that way.  

(Alright, full story. Her roommate, Katherine, kept saying she wanted a snake. How was Traynor to know she meant the Sirta Snake Bio-Amp Add-On? And furthermore, how was she to know that Katherine actually had a rather serious phobia of real snakes? Honestly, anyone could make that kind of mistake…)

However, when your girlfriend’s only expressed desire is to eradicate the reapers, it’s a bit tricky to find her a suitable Christmas present. Traynor can’t actually get rid of the reapers, and even if she _could_ , it would be terribly gauche to hold onto that until Christmas Day.  So on their shore leave, which Shepard mercifully schedules on Christmas Eve, Traynor makes her excuses and wanders to Citadel Souvenirs, not with any purpose, but because it’s the first place she sees.

 Citadel Souvenirs appears to carry every item Shepard owns. Does she even go to any other stores?  Fish & hamsters are out; Traynor knows that Shepard isn’t in any danger of hiding under her bunk bed and screaming if she sees them, but she’s got a policy against live animals nowadays on principle.  Maybe one of the ships, then? The problem is, she has no idea which ones Shepard already has. She always has better things to think about when she’s in the cabin, you know?

She reaches out to one of the ships, a Batarian cruiser. It’s cool to the touch, and when she puts her hand around it, heavier than she expected. It’s actually kind of neat.  The level of detail is downright impressive.  (It even has those silly outdated Dah’Tan antenna they insist on using, even though any serious solar flare will knock them out. Even more adorable in miniaturized form!) She starts to see the appeal of the model ships, here where she can touch it, instead of locked up in Shepard’s glass cabinets. Traynor successfully resists the urge to pick up the cruiser and go “Pew-pew’ for like, two whole minutes, which is all considered, quite an accomplishment.

“Pew-pew” she giggles and flies it around in an arc, the smile sliding off her face as she meets the eyes of the asari who owns the store. “Oh, I—“

“Put that down!” The asari scolds her like a small child, the humiliation made worse by the appearance of Lieutenant Commander Ashley Williams, who walks in and raises her eyebrows. Traynor can’t tell if she’s amused or annoyed.

“Having fun, Specialist?” Ashley crosses her arms, but grins. Amused! Good. Williams hasn’t been anything but kind to her since she joined the crew, but she’s still new and Traynor has a strong aversion against getting on the wrong side of a woman with a giant-ass gun and the cajones to shoot it. “I wasn’t even aware that particular model had …lazers.”

Traynor drops her jaw in mock offense. “Every ship should have lazers.”

The asari coughs, gesturing at the model still in Traynor’s hand. “M’am? Unless you intend to buy it?”

“No…probably not.” Traynor sets the model down contritely. “Do you have any newer ones? I’m looking for a friend who collects. “

“Shep? She’s got all those.” Williams says, not unkindly.

“Commander Shepard?” The asari asks, giving Traynor a  more tolerating look. “She is one of our most valued customers. She  pre-orders, just to be sure.”

Traynor sighs. “Just to be sure it’s impossible to find her a gift!” She heads out the door, Williams following along.

“I’ve got to stop at the hospital. I’ll walk with you for a bit. And… “ Ashley laughs. “Somehow, Specialist, I think you’ll figure something out. I’m lucky…me and Shep, we have a tradition. Nothing big, but… It’ll be nice to do it again…the last few Christmases just haven’t been the same, you know? Not that this one is normal either….”

“There’s an understatement. What do you do?” Traynor, who has still not gotten around to asking Shepard about the extent of her past relationship with the very buxom Lieutenant Commander,  imagines them sitting together on a blanket, in some grassy spot--or more likely, the Starboard Observation Deck-- while Ashley recites poetry to an enraptured Shepard.

“We buy each other alcohol and then we sit down and drink it. Talk about the year we went through, no bullshit.“

“Oh, that’s nice. “ Traynor says, both relieved and embarrassed of her jealous reaction. And also slightly worried, because, this is like, the third friend of Shepard’s that she has a yearly drinking tradition with. “And very easy to buy for.”

 Williams stops in front of the elevators and pushes the call button. “We keep joking that one of these years, we’ll get cute, and bring something like martinis or wine coolers, but every year…we just need something a bit stronger to get through it, you know? And this year, after all that’s happened…

“Gods, you’ll need a tank of ryncol.” Traynor blurts out, then slaps her hands over her mouth.

Williams stares at her for a second, then bursts out laughing as she boards the elevator. “Good luck.”

 

 

*

 

The next store she tries is Kassa Fabrications. Guns, Shepard likes guns! Traynor herself does not know much about guns. Sure, she had to learn about them at the academy, but the wonderful part about becoming a Specialist is that she got to specialize in something besides shooting guns.

The Presidium is busier than she’s ever seen it before and she’s surprised to even see a few holiday lights up. Christmas was never a big deal on Horizon, but there are enough Earthborn humans at the Citadel to make their presence felt. She notices some of the alien species have gotten into the spirit of the holiday too. A batarian passes her, wearing a Santa costume, and  gives her a toothy smile that would give any child an instant phobia.

 She heads over to the counter, where a salarian sits reading a magazine. He doesn’t look up at first, so she coughs. “So, you sell guns and gun..stuff. Accessories.” Traynor winces on her own behalf. “I might want to buy a…gun. “

The salarian at the counter lowers his magazine slightly and blinks. “Which one?”

“The …best one you’ve got. A lot of firepower. ” 

He sniffles and raises the magazine back up. “Well, obviously, that’s going to depend on the user’s experience and skill set. I’m not sure we have anything…for you.”

 “Hey!’ Traynor glares at him. “I’m a member of the Alliance Navy!”

“I don’t understand, is that supposed to make me think you’re more qualified or…? Because it pretty much has the opposite effect.”

What a horrid little man!  Traynor doesn’t usually enjoy lying, but there’s always an exception. She steeples her fingers and purses her lips. “Well, that’s too bad. I’ll just tell Admiral Hackett that we are going to have to find another supplier. “

“Wait, woa, I..” The salarian is on his feet, magazine discarded in a panic, and Traynor keeps a straight face until she’s a safe distance away. Still not satisfied, she pulls out her portable device and hacks his system, lowering the prices by 10%, then feeling bad about that, raises them again until they are 1% lower. For patriotism.

*****

Traynor decides to stop by This One’s Secret. She and Shepard haven’t been dating very long; it seems a bit presumptuous to dress herself up in a skimpy gown and say ‘ta-da!’ as her _only_ present, but well, she doesn’t have to give her just one. Also, Traynor really likes buying new lingerie, so really if she’s honest…it’s more of a present for her than anything.

After grabbing a red lace negligee, she heads to the checkout. She’s so lost in thought, thinking of what Shepard’s face will look like when she sees her wearing it, that she doesn’t pay attention to where she’s going and trips over an asari meditating on the floor.

Well, now that she thinks about, she’s only really half to blame there. Who meditates on the floor at This One’s Secret? There’s only one person she can think of who might do that and—oh she realizes as the asari turns and shows her distinct red outfit and calm eyes-- it _is_ her.

“Pardon…Samara? I’m Specialist Traynor. I serve on the Normandy, we met briefly a few weeks ago?”

The asari stands up gracefully and shakes her hand. “Of course, Specialist Traynor. You were so kind to assist my daughter with repairing the monastery’s communications.”

“It was nothing. How is she doing?”

“She has adjusted her new life so quickly that my presence was no longer necessary. I will return to visit, if I survive the coming battle, but she does not need me.  Already she is braver and wiser than I. It is all a mother can ask for.“ Samara’s mouth trembles slightly, and Traynor feels an awkward mixture of compassion for the other woman and acute awareness that this conversation is taking place between stacks of Volus underwear.

“So, if I may ask…what are you doing in this store?”

“Ah. “ Samara smiles. “I am almost a thousand years old. I have travelled the galaxy as both mercenary and justicar. I have many secrets. And… I did not truly understand what the store was until I entered. “

“Oh.” Traynor slides the negligee to her other arm. “So…not a tiny teddy person then.”

 “I did not say that. I might yet buy something before I leave.  And that,“ she gestures at the lingerie, “Shepard will love it. ”

Traynor’s eyes widen. “Oh…did she tell you about us?”

“No.”

“Then…”

“Almost a thousand years old, Specialist.”

“Right.”

 

*****

 The Intergalactic Artist Co-Op is not a place she’d normally stop, but she’s a) feeling desperate and b) is pretty sure she just saw Grunt go inside. She has to go in to confirm, because the storefront is covered top to bottom with ratty, strange posters.  A hanar in a jail cell, tentacles folded over a bed, with the text ‘LET THIS ONE GO.’ A linocut of a Reaper with a mohawk.  Surprisingly, a few pictures of Shepard? Traynor gathers from the small handpressed manifesto attached to the door that they are super big fans of that one time she let the Council die.

She walks in, nods at the elcor at the door, and is surprised by how little the inside matches the outside. The walls and floor are sterile white, and paintings are displayed on the walls with little red velvet chains in front. On the far side of the room, looking up at brightly colored paintings, is the krogan, so she walks over.

“Er, Grunt?”

The krogan grunts in irritation, but when he turns, his eyes light up and he holds an arm out. “Mate of Shepard!”

“Specialist Samantha Traynor.” she says as she takes his arm. It’s not that she _minds_ such an epithet it’s just that…ok, yeah she minds it. “What brings you here?”

“The art. Turns out, we krogans are pretty good at it. Bet you didn’t expect that!”

“Krogan art?”

“Look at this one!” Grunt drags her to a landscape painting closer to the entrance. She’d expect something like Tuchanka, but the deep blues of sea, greens of the land and brilliant yellows and reds of the sunset remind her of life on Horizon.

“Oh, it’s lovely.” She briefly considers getting the painting, but it would never do for Shepard, who grew up in a stinking, crowded city and relishes telling Traynor stories of skulking through alleys to steal corndogs from vendors, or climbing up three story buildings to use fishing poles to steal corndogs from venders, etc. Not a whole lot of natural beauty, but a heck of a lot of stolen corndogs. Also the painting is absurdly expensive. She could buy her weight in toothbrushes for what they want! “It makes me think of home.”

“It makes me think of the joy of rage in battle.” Grunt replies, his voice dreamy and contemplative.

“Yes. Oh. Wait, pardon?”

“They’re krogan paintings..” He pauses for a second, then seeing she doesn’t quite get it, mimics using a paint brush and adds “..made from the blood of our enemies.”

Traynor swallows and examines the painting again. Memories of her childhood gone, now she catalogues the scenes by species. The land is salarian, the ocean turian, the sky human and... huh.  “I… don’t know if I’ve ever seen blood quite that brightly yellow before.”

“Yerk. Small species in the Hong system. Extinct now, that’s why the price on this beauty is so high.”

“What happened to them?” Grunt gives her a wide smile . “You killed them all for…art? But, isn’t that..sort of.…genocide?”

“Bah. Art is very important to us krogans. You couldn’t understand.” Grunt turns away, clearly insulted. “Also, they were race of weakling cowards. No one liked them. Quarians even gave us a medal.”

Crap. From the protective way Shepard talks about the young krogan, Traynor can tell he’s like a surrogate child, and Traynor does not want evil stepmom status.

“Grunt…I think the painting is brilliant, honestly. If I had the credits, I’d buy it. ” She finds she really does mean it. It’s hideous, yes, revoluting , absolutely, but…also rather beautiful. And would certainly make for an interesting topic of discussion at dinner parties.  (Even so, she’s not going to lose sleep over the fact she’ll never own it.)

Grunt looks at her, seems to take in that she’s telling the truth, and nods. “What do you like about it?”

“Well…um, I’d say that the ..juxtaposition of the violent origins of the paint and the tranquil scene created with it is just fascinating.”

“Yeah. Juxtaposition.” Grunt repeats. “Heh heh.”

The elcor at the door shakes his head as she leaves. “Pretentiously, I do not think you get the piece.”

 

*

Traynor slumps down on a bench in the Presidum. One hour of shore leave left, and she’s got nothing but a bag of sexy lingerie. For herself.

“There’s nothing here.” She moans and puts her head between her hands.

“With all due respect.” says the female VI voice. (Avina: good voice, but not as good as EDI’s, much bossier than EDI too, and you can’t even teach her to stop. ) “The Citadel has everything. If you can’t find it here, then it’s nowhere to be found.”

A man near her snorts. “Pfft, ain’t that a lie. I can name about a hundred things that this old boat doesn’t have. You need something? I can get anything. I mean, _anything._ One time I heard about this asari treasure, hidden on some shitty little planet in the DMZ. I took a crew, of course all of them died, but I left with--”

“I’m just trying to find my girlfriend a present.” Traynor interrupts him, because as charming as his story is, she just doesn’t have the energy to listen.

“Oh, that’s it? Hell, give the bint a heart locket, or a stuffed pyjak, or something corny like that and then a good shag, that’ll do.”

“Huh.” Traynor sits up. “You’re…brilliant! Thank you!” And then she’s running off.

“Yeah, yeah. I know “ the man says as she leaves. “Merry goddamn Christmas.”

 

 

*

 

The look on Shepard’s face when she sees her present is worth all the angst.

“Holy shit, Sam, are those corn dogs? Those are corn dogs!!!  _Corn dogs._ I haven’t…….how did you pull this off?”

Traynor shrugs, not bothering to stop the smile that broadens across her face. “Naturally, I stole them.”

Well, here’s what she actually did.  These days, corn is really only used in gasoline production, so she’d met with a very confused Nashan Stellar Dynamics representative who sold her the smallest bulk bag they had of industrial grade cornmeal. Then, a trip to Rend’s Exotic Meats, where she bought a questionable meat blend that Rend assured her tasted “just like an Earth pig.” As Rend was a krogan, and when pressed, admitted to never having eaten an Earth pig before, Traynor’s confidence in this proclamation was very low, but she took what she could get.

When she got back on the Normandy, she asked Liara to scan it. The blend was 35% varren, 25%  space cow, 25% unidentifiable, and 15% something Liara refused to tell her.

“I think you’ll just feel better if you don’t know.” Liara said and handed the meat back to her. “It’s safe though.”

More heartening was a taste test she did with Joker, who proclaimed it “as close to Earth pig as anything I’ve ever had.” Traynor decided that whether or not he’d actually had Earth pig or anything resembling it was another thing she’d feel better not knowing _._ At least it was _edible._ That was something, and not something she could have determined with her stomach that nervous.

So, with just a little help from EDI and Tali, she’d whipped up a deep fryer and made some corn dogs. Or…something slightly resembling them. And here they were, in Shepard’s quarters, with a plate of corn-dogs and a bottle of wine.

Merry corndog Christmas. Wearing sexy lingerie and serving mystery meat on a stick to your lover wasn’t the romantic dream of her childhood, but she hasn’t seen Shepard smile like this in a while.

Traynor bites her lip as Shepard takes a bite. “How is it?”

Shepard chews, thinking. “It’s..pretty awful.”

“Oh no!” Her face falls. “I mean, I tried to get an authentic taste, I had to improvise a lot, I—“

“Traynor.” Shepard waves her off. “You got it perfectly. I’ve just always fucking hated corn dogs.”

“Oh…I…” Traynor pauses, watching Shepard take another huge bite. “I’ll be perfectly honest. I don’t understand your relationship with corn dogs at all.”

“It’s complicated.” Shepard takes another bite, then sets her corndog down. “Oh! I’ve got to give you your gift!”

“My gift?” She blinks. After all the obsessing and panic, Traynor has completely forgotten that Christmas presents are a two way street. She sits back in her seat, crosses her bare legs and squeezes her chest together in the lace top. “Well, let’s have it then?”

Shepard wipes her fingers off thoroughly, then walks over to the storage unit by her tank. “Close your eyes!”

Traynor acquiesces. She hears Shepard banging around, whatever she’s got is quite large or unwieldy. “Is it a pony? I’ve always wanted a pony.”

“Nope, not a pony. Open your eyes.”

In front of her is the krogan painting from earlier: the calm landscape made of genocide and blood.  Shepard beams with pride and picks up her corn dog. “I was going to get you a spa gift certificate”--(here Traynor tries very hard not to let her face contort into disappointment and/or horror)--“but I saw you at the art gallery earlier and after you left, I went in and talked to Grunt. He said you really loved this painting, that it reminded you of home. So I got it for you.”

“It’s..wonderful. Thank you.” Traynor looks at the weird painting in front of her, at the weird food she’s just made, at the weird woman she loves, and she smiles. This life she’s led. Always going in strange directions, veering off right when she think she’s got a handle on it all, but in the end.. it all seems to make sense somehow, doesn’t it?

Except for the Reapers, and the Prothean in the cargo hold, and well…gosh. It’s the holiday. No need to be a killjoy, not tonight at least.

“Merry Christmas, love” she says, taking Shepard’s hand.

“Muuhry Cusmus.” Shepard mumbles back, mouth full of corn dog.  

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
